


Training Wheels

by steviemarie



Series: training wheels / tear in my heart [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, background minor marumina, because apparently that is all i know how to write, bunch of other background pairings, the most cliche story ever, there at college again
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-20 15:18:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8253731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steviemarie/pseuds/steviemarie
Summary: He looks around and then leans into you, saying quietly -- you assume so nobody can overhear him -- yet dramatically. “I’m the last virgin in Trost.”And in hindsight, it probably wasn’t the best idea to take a bite more of your food before he spoke and when the choking subsides you look him in the eye. “Pardon?”“You heard me.” He tells you. “I know you did, I’m not repeating myself again.” ----explicit rating is for later chaptersunbeta'dongoingjean x f!reader





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the song "Training Wheels" by Melanie Martinez.

Why?

Why are you such a lazy, lazy ass? 

If you'd gotten out of bed when your alarm had rung this morning, then you would have had plenty of time to toss together a tasty sandwich, or a salad. But no, you were you and so instead of getting out of bed to make your lunch, which had been the plan when you'd set the alarm, you'd instead spent forty-five minutes staring down at your phone, scrolling through Tumblr and Snapchat stories, checking up on the rest of your social media and apps before you'd realised the time and realised that you just about had enough time to dive in and out of the shower. You hadn't even washed your hair this morning. 

So you'd had no breakfast and after two long, long classes you'd found yourself in the caf with the inedible looking (and smelling) 'dish of the day' in front of you. The only way you could think to describe it was 'brown sludge' and you really, really didn't freaking trust food that shade of brown. 

Yeah, your life is totally changing tomorrow – you're gonna get out of bed bright and early and you'll choke down some breakfast, even though you don't usually bother, then you'll shower and put together something appropriate for human consumption and still have plenty of time before you have to leave to get the bus to your classes. Hell, when you get back home later maybe you'll even gather up that stack of washing that's been ever growing in the corner of the room and pop it in the washing machine. And maybe you'll even clean your room a little while you're waiting for it to dry. 

Actually, nah, you probably won't go that far. 

You look down at the 'food' again and with disdain, take a deep breath, prodding it with the supplied plastic fork (and you wished whoever it is that sorts out the money shit at Trost Community College cared more about the environment and less about having to pay out the money for an industrial dishwasher), you're not quite sure what you're expecting it to do to be honest, but hey, at least it doesn't jiggle? That's a good sign at least, so with hesitation and a sigh, you scoop some up on the fork and bring it to your mouth, taking your first 'bite'. 

Well.

At least it doesn't taste as terrible as it looks, but it's definitely nothing gourmet. You shove another fork into your mouth, reaching down to fish around in your bag until your hands clasp over the familiar shape of your phone, more than ready to fall into a pit of Mystic Messenger to distract yourself from the look of the stuff you're shovelling into your mouth and open a chat with Lovely Zen to help you finish up the rest of your lunch break.

At least that's the plan. You're into the game and ignoring everything around you, so when a loud thump on the table happens it pulls you out of your own world, heart beating a mile a minute. Looking up from your phone, frown on your face, you see the source of the noise is a thick, Art History text book that your friend since you were kids (though he's less the-boy-next-door and more the-boy-down-the-road, Jean has thrown down onto the table as he slides into the empty seat opposite you. He doesn't speak, mind, just looks a mix of pissed and upset as he pulls his own lunch out , which you can't help but eye up jealously because it's just a sandwich in a brown bag, but it was no doubt made by his Mom. “Okay,” you tell him when he still doesn't start speaking. “I'll bite. What's wrong?” 

He looks up at you with an expression on his face akin to someone who’s just watched their puppy get kicked. “It’s... nothing. It’s just officially official.”  
“What,” you ask. “Exactly are you talking about?”

He looks around and then leans into you, saying quietly -- you assume so nobody can overhear him -- yet dramatically. “I’m the last virgin in Trost.”

And in hindsight, it probably wasn’t the best idea to take a bite more of your food before he spoke and when the choking subsides you look him in the eye. “Pardon?”

“You heard me.” He tells you. “I know you did, I’m not repeating myself again.” 

“Oh, I heard you, I’m just wondering if I heard you right and if, I in fact did hear you right, I’m wondering when you found the time to go around the whole of Trost and survey every person who lives here, because Kirsch, if you did, you’ve managed to screw up your numbers because I can guarantee that you’re not.” And uh, you know that because you are too, but you’re not about to tell him that you know what a big mouth he has and the last thing you want is that Reiner dude to come and ask you if you want your muffin buttered. “There are children in Trost too, you know?” And you feel grossed out that your brain went there, but whatever.

Jean’s obviously in agreement with that, because he shoots you the most grossed out look. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Hey, at least it distracted him from his misery for all of five seconds. “Okay, fine, out of all the people who live in Trost who are of age.” 

“Again,” you ask. “When exactly did you conduct this survey?” You push your half-empty plate away from you because even though you didn’t get to finish eating, the raging appetite you’d had had subsided by quite a lot.

“I didn’t do a survey,” he snaps back at you. “I just know. Do you want to know how I know?”

Truthfully, you really don’t because you have no idea what the hell else is going to come out of his mouth, but you know that even if you say you don’t want to know he’s gonna ignore you and he’s gonna tell you anyway, so you just keep quiet and say nothing. 

“Marco.” He tells you.

You can’t help but bark out a laugh. “Wait, so Marco did a survey? Or he came up and said to you ‘oh hey Jean, you’re the last...’” You don’t finish your sentence because he shoots you the most withering look.

“Forget about the survey,” he says through gritted teeth. “There was no survey. And uh,” the tips of his ears blush a fiery red. “He didn’t tell me anything. I went to meet him this morning and went straight up to his room because he wasn’t up yet which I thought was really weird and he and Mina were in bed together.”

And ugh, if your appetite hadn’t already gone, it definitely had now. “...Doesn’t mean they’ve slept together, hell we’ve slept in the same bed and we’ve never done anything like that.” 

“Trust me,” Jean tells you. “I asked him and he turned into a human tomato. It’s definitely happened.” And oh God, you really, really hope that Mina Carolina took her pigtails out before she got smashed. And ugh, oh God you can feel that brown sludge on the move, you can’t believe you just thought of Marco Bodt smashing anyone. You may need Jean’s brown paper bag. “And may I remind you that the last time we slept in a bed together we were both six.” 

“You have a point there, but did I really need to know about Marco? I’m sure he’d prefer that you kept that one quiet.” 

Jean just shrugs. “You’re the one who made me prove me life is over.”

You roll your eyes. “Your life is not over, you over dramatic fuck. It’ll happen.”

“Oh yeah?” He sneers at you. “When?”

Why does he expect you to know? You’re not a psychic. Though you are tempted to tell him he’s gonna be forty-two and see how he reacts. “When you might the right...”

He cuts you off. “I swear, if you say when I meet the right person... I already did, remember?” He sends a longing look across the caf and you don’t even have to follow his eye line to know exactly who he’s looking at. He’s had a crush on Mikasa Ackerman for as long as you can remember. You kind of thought it was cute and pitied him at first, now you just hope that one day he’ll get over it and stop embarrassing himself.

‘Cuz you’re sure Mikasa’s girlfriend Annie isn’t going to let her go any time.

“Mikasa’s already with someone and she’s made it clear that even if she wasn’t, she’s not into you.” Oh okay, well that came out a lot harsher than you were planning it. “Sorry.”

It doesn’t even look like he heard, so you nudge him with your foot under the table. “What?”

You shake your head. “Nevermind, look Jean I promise you that it’ll happen, you’ve just gotta wait it out.” 

He pulls a face and starts gathering his stuff up. “Whatever.” But you can see the positive misery on his face. “You don’t know that.” 

You just shake your head, so over his dramatics as you gather your own stuff up.


End file.
